6th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: A collection of holiday hurt!Sam stories based on prompts. REQUESTS ARE CLOSED! Chapter 5: A lot has changed since Dean went to Hell.
1. Last Christmas

_**Author's Note:**_ _It's been a long time, hasn't it? My life has changed a lot from when I first started writing fanfiction many years ago. But I still do love writing and supporting fandom. So, of course, I couldn't miss out on this annual tradition. Welcome, everyone, to the 6_ _th_ _Annual 25 Days of Hurt!Sam! Can you believe it's been six years? Where does time go?_

 _What is this, you ask? This is where I give back to all of you with stories filled with our beloved Sammy getting hurt in various fashions and of course, all that wonderful comfort that comes after. But perhaps the part that I love most, all of the stories will come from ideas from all of you, dear readers. That being said, there are a few ground rules:_

 _Sam must be the one getting hurt in this story. Prompts must be centered around Sam._

 _This is a holiday collection, so prompts must be holiday themed! Pick any aspect of the holidays and build your prompt around that. I will not be writing any non-holiday prompts._

 _ **No M-rated prompts**_ _. Nothing with rape or child abuse or anything dark like that._

 _Prompts are fulfilled in the order that they are received. To submit a prompt, just leave it in a review._

 _And now, without further ado, let's get this show on the road! Set during season eight._

* * *

" _Someday all our dreams will come to be_

 _Someday in a world where men are free_

 _Maybe not in time for you and me_

 _But someday at Christmas time."_

— _Stevie Wonder, "Someday At Christmas"_

* * *

Christmas when you're suffering from the effects of the Trials isn't exactly easy.

For one thing, Sam hasn't had his fever break in what feels like a small eternity. No, despite the copious amounts of ibuprofen he keeps swallowing, his temperature comfortably rests at 100. It's annoying, but he'd take that over the spikes to 105 that kept coming back with a vengeance. It seems like everything is such an ordeal now—his eyes can barely focus on the page of the book he's reading, the words all blurring and swirling around. Frustrated, Sam pushes the book aside.

It's almost bittersweet, really. This could be the last Christmas he will ever have. Dean, of course, would deny that—his older brother would only accept one outcome; that Sam would live, and the gates of Hell would be shut—but Sam can feel it, deep in his bones.

He's dying.

It makes sense, really. And in some way, it's almost poetic. The Boy King, the man who doomed the world—he can finally save it, once and for all. With the Gates of Hell closed, so many people would be safe from the demons that hunted them. Children wouldn't end up orphaned. Lovers wouldn't be able to make demon deals. If it comes down to it, what's one life against saving a plethora of them?

And it's not that Sam wants to die. Sure, there was a time when Sam had—dying had seemed to be the only way to escape the chaos that he wrought after Dean died—but somehow, they had saved the world. But, when Sam really thinks about it, he should've died years ago. If Dean hadn't made that deal, Sam would've been gone. Could the Trials be trying to set right what had been changed so long ago?

Soft, faint Christmas music filters in. Dean's gotten into the festive mood—his brother always had made Christmas a big deal when they'd been kids—and the bunker sparkles with old Christmas lights, twinkling from where Dean had taped them to the wall. They've never really had a home base before and Sam's not surprised that Dean's taking the opportunity to dive headfirst into decorating. Maybe, in another life, Dean could've gotten a house and been one of those passionate guys that synced his lights to music.

Maybe, in another life, Sam and Dean could've been—

"You good, Sammy?" Dean stands in the doorway, another box of lights in his hands.

"Fine." Sam lies, snapping out of his reverie. Dean's been watching him like a hawk recently, trying to sense any symptoms and prevent them from appearing, almost by sheer force of will.

But not even Dean can stop this. No one can. The only way out is through and Sam knows that he won't make it through. He'll die, and the gates will close. He'll die, and the world will be safe.

"Your fever spiking?" Dean tosses the box of lights aside and crosses the distance between them, resting a cool hand on Sam's forehead. His brow furrows and he sighs, "Shit, Sammy, you're burning up."

Sam lets out a sheepish laugh, "Seems to be a daily thing." He wants to keep things light hearted. He doesn't want to add to Dean's worries.

"When was the last time you ate?"

Sam sighs, "Dean—"

Dean narrows his gaze, "When, Sam?"

"Yesterday. Maybe?"

Dean shakes his head, "You gotta eat, Sam. Keep up your strength."

They've faced down death before. When Dean had been sent to Hell, Sam thought the grief would've swallowed him whole. At times, he wanted it to. Dean was the only person—the only constant—in his life and he'd do anything for his brother.

But Sam knows the playing field. He knows the forces they're up against. He's older now, more mature. If it means saving the world—saving Dean—then Sam is more than willing to die. Dean would never want to let him go, but over time, he would accept it.

"Hey," Dean's soft voice causes Sam's eyes to dart to his brother's face, "What's going on in that big brain of yours?"

It's Christmastime—a time to spend with your loved ones, cherishing the memories of days gone by and days yet to come. Sam's never needed gifts or a tree though to feel festive. Even now, facing death once more, Sam is content to celebrate his last Christmas by his brother's side.

"Nothing, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Well, come on, let's get some food in you. Want soup?"

"Sure."

"You sure you're good?"

Sam chuckles, "Fine, Dean."

Dean accepts that and steps out of the study, calling, "Come on then."

Sam takes one more look at the study, at the twinkling lights. Maybe, they could pull off a Christmas miracle. Perhaps they could somehow both come through it together. It's a magical season, after all.

But if not—if this really is his last Christmas—then spending it with Dean is the only present he needs.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This was more angst than hurt, but I enjoyed writing it. It's been awhile so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty. I look forward to seeing your prompts! Thanks for reading!_


	2. Craving

_**Author's Note:**_ _Once again, I'm blown away by how kind and welcoming all of you are. From the bottom of my heart, thank you all so much! Today's prompt comes from_ _ **bagelcat1**_ _who requested, "Sam gets cursed with a desire to eat fruitcake and eats slice after slice after slice - he can't stop. Of course, he hates fruit cake to begin with and that much heavy fruit and nut, booze-soaked cake makes him very, very sick to his stomach." This is a really interesting prompt! Thanks so much! Let's set this in season eight, but before the Trials._

* * *

" _The fire's burning bright_

 _Strike up the band and play the tune_

 _'Cause Christmas will be here and soon_

 _You'll hear our song in every room_

 _This merry Christmas night."_

— _Relient K, "Merry Christmas, Here's To Many More"_

* * *

The whole thing would be funny if it weren't happening to him. After all, it's a fitting curse, one that proves that its caster has a wicked sense of humor and as far as curses go, it's not exactly the worst one they've come up against. Still, as he tugs his arm forward, the IV burns and Sam hisses as he winces.

Dean glances up from the book before him, a frown etched on his brother's face, "You good?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he takes yet another bite of the horrible fruit cake, "I never want to see another fruit cake after this."

Dean huffs out a laugh, "You've never liked fruit cake."

"It's nasty," Sam mutters as he takes one more bite, "Seriously, I get why people give these to people they hate." He wishes he could at least take a sip of water to cleanse his palette, but the last time he tried that, he coughed up blood. The bunker had medical supplies and they're lucky that they have plenty of IV fluids to prevent dehydration.

"We'll figure this out, Sam."

Sam nods, but as he finishes up the piece of fruit cake before him, he can't help but frown as a wave of nausea washes over him. He can't stop eating though—not until they broke the curse, or it killed him—and right now, Sam's not sure what the outcome will be.

* * *

Witches are notoriously fickle.

Really, they hadn't even been looking for a witch. They had come to town to investigate reports of Christmas miracles—sudden snowfalls, surprise healings—and then they had bumped into the witch, bundled up in a light up Christmas sweater and eating sugar cookies.

"You guys are the worst," She complained as they burned her altar, "Such grinches!"

She hadn't put up a fight though and since she technically wasn't hurting anyone—spells always came with a price, but they couldn't tie any deaths in the area to her—they let her go. Still, as Sam turned to leave, her red and green nails bore into his wrist as she jerked him to a stop.

"You have no Christmas spirit, do you?" She smiled maliciously, peach lips turned upwards in a grotesque smile.

Dean instantly had a gun to her back, "Let him go."

"Two can play at this game." She released Sam then and faced Dean. Chuckling, she vanished before their eyes.

Dean rushed forwards, hands checking his baby brother for any injuries, "You good?"

"Fine." He rubbed his wrist, noticing the bruises from her nails digging into his skin, and felt an odd jolt run up his spine.

"Sam? You sure?" Dean's careful gaze scanned him, "We don't want—"

The youngest Winchester forced a stiff smile onto his lips, "Dude, relax. Let's go get something to eat and then get out of here."

* * *

That's how they ended up at the diner across town, Dean happily munching on a burger and an odd craving taking over Sam. He'd ordered a salad and a slice of fruitcake.

"Dude," Dean remarked, "You hate fruitcake. Everyone does."

Sam shrugged and took a bite, frowning at the taste, "I just wanted to try it again. This one looks homemade."

Still, he pushed the plate away and took a bite of the salad.

"You and your rabbit food." Dean groused, a fond grin on his face.

Sam swallowed and immediately began to cough. His stomach rebelled and the world around him spun.

"Sam?"

The coughing wouldn't stop, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. Grabbing a napkin, he coughed into it, only for the white to be dyed crimson. Finally, after a small eternity, his breathing returned to normal and the blood stopped. Grabbing his glass, he took a sip of water, but immediately spat it out as more blood flowed out of his mouth.

"Sammy!" Dean reached over, pulling his brother to him. It still amazed Sam that, after all these years, Dean could hold him just as easily as he did as a child. And just like when he was a child, Dean's touch always brought such comfort.

"Think she did something." Sam managed to get out.

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "C'mon, let's get back to the hotel."

* * *

And that's how they ended up back on the hunt for a Christmas loving witch.

Through trial and error, they found out that the only food that Sam's body would allow him to have was fruitcake. Anything else was immediately rejected, but luckily the IV seemed to fly under the radar of the curse. The last thing Sam needed was to be hospitalized for dehydration and have doctors freak out over his mysterious condition.

"You think if we go back to her altar that she'll be there?" Sam questions as he sadly takes another piece of fruitcake. He can't stop, as much as his stomach wishes he would. He's nauseous and wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but the craving for fruitcake is too strong. The longest Sam made it without coughing up blood was an hour without fruitcake.

"It's our best bet," Dean grouses, running a hand through his hair, "We could try a summoning there."

"That doesn't mean she'll reverse it."

"Then, we kill her," Dean replies flatly. At Sam's arched eyebrows, his brother tacks on, "Look, she may not have hurt anyone, but if it comes between you and her, I'm picking you, Sam."

Sam grins. Things haven't been too good between them recently with the whole purgatory debacle, but now, it feels like they're getting back to where they were.

"Let's go then." Sam stands up and reaches for his gun.

"You sure you're up for this? I can just go—"

"I'm not letting you go alone, Dean," He cocks his gun and checks it—good to go, "So, c'mon."

"All right." Dean's expression hardens, morphing from a concerned brother to a deadly hunter.

* * *

The altar is empty, but as soon as Sam enters the room, his stomach burns, and he doubles over, groaning.

"Sammy!" Dean's strong arms steady him, but there's panic in his big brother's voice.

"M'fine," Sam groans, but blood dribbles from his lips. It feels like someone has shot him in the stomach and then poured salt into the wood. He tries to swallow the blood back down, but his stomach recoils and he heaves, blood pouring out of his mouth faster.

"Where are you?" Dean growls to the empty room, "You better show your face or—"

"Or what?" The witch steps out from the dark, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She smirks at the sight of Sam's sunken form, "Not doing too hot, are you?"

Dean immediately points his gun at her, "Reverse the curse!"

"You think killing me will solve this?" She asks, almost astounded, "I knew hunters were stupid, but I didn't get how stupid until now." She steps closer to Sam, kneeling down to make eye contact, "Fruitcake not sitting well, huh?"

"Please." Sam whispers, blood dripping onto the floor below him.

"Please?" She echoes, eyes widening, "That didn't stop you guys from burning my altar, did it? I was just helping people and you two ruined everything!"

"You don't kill," Sam points out, trying to push himself up so he can stand, "Don't start now."

A flicker of indecision enters her emerald eyes. She sighs, facing the window. Snow gently falls outside, and she places a hand to the window.

"Christmas has always been my favorite time of year," The witch mutters, "And I wanted to give back, the only way I could," She faces Dean and Sam, reaching a hand out, "Consider this your Christmas present."

Her cool hand touches his cheek and Sam staggers back, an almost electric shock coursing through him.

"Sam!"

But when he glances up to look at the witch, she's gone.

* * *

His stomach stays in knots for a few days afterward, but he's able to drink water and eat small bites of food so it makes life bearable. When he's ready to finally leave and go back to the bunker, he catches his brother staring outside the small window in their motel room.

"It snowing?" Sam questions.

Dean pulls the curtain back, revealing almost movie magical snow drifting down.

"That witch," Dean starts quietly, "Did we do the right thing?"

There are shades of grey in hunting, situations that many other hunters avoided. To other hunters, killing the witch would be the right move simply because she's a witch. But more and more, Sam finds that he and Dean are forced to make difficult decisions. Do they follow their father's creed and kill anything supernatural because it is supernatural? Or is it more a case by case basis?

"Honestly?" Sam shrugs, "I don't know."

Sam comes to stand next to his brother, watching as children happily throw snowballs at each other.

"But, for now, we've done all we could," Sam places a hand on his brother's shoulder, offering his support.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."

And for a second, he sees the witch outside, passing out candy canes. She makes brief eye contact with him before smirking and vanishing in a wave of snow.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

For now, they have each other and that's all that matter. Those shades of grey could wait a few more days.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thanks so much for reading! Please review if you have a moment._


	3. Times Have Changed For Me

_**Author's Note:**_ _A quick word about my posting speed. Unfortunately, I will no longer be able to post every day, but I will do my utmost to keep wait times short. Thanks again for all the sweet comments! I had no idea how much this series meant to so many of you. I'm honored that you all look forward to it every year! Today's prompt comes from_ _ **AngelofGrace96**_ _who asked for "time travel". You got it! Let's set this pre-series, when Sam is 13 as well as post season five, pre-season six._

* * *

" _Greeting cards have all been sent_

 _The Christmas rush is through_

 _But I still have one wish to make_

 _A special one for you."_

— _The Carpenters, "Merry Christmas Darling"_

* * *

Christmas is one of Sam Winchester's favorite times. While it's a break from school, it's also the one time that his father actually seems to smile, and Dean takes it easy. They try not to get involved in a hunt close to Christmas and usually bunker down in cabin somewhere.

Well, that's normally the plan.

This year, the hunt has taken them longer than expected. More specifically, they can't exactly nail down what creature is causing mysterious disappearances in the small town of Everett, Connecticut. The trail has gone cold—metaphorically and now, physically as a blizzard blows in—and if there's one thing their father hates, it's unfinished business.

Still, it's Christmas Eve. They can't be expected to hunt tonight, right?

"Sammy." Dean ruffles Sam's hair as he steps into the living room, shutting the door behind him as a gust of freezing air rushes in. Sam shivers a bit, tugging on his sweater. They splurged for heating, but keep it low, lest they lose it in the storm.

"Run into Dad?" Sam questions, handing Dean a warm cup of coffee.

"He thinks he's got a lead," At Sam's frown, the older brother adds, "But relax, Sammy, it's Christmas. Dad may be a workaholic, but even he takes Christmas off."

Sam lets a small grin alight on his lips. He may be thirteen now, but the magic of Christmas still touches him. He may not exactly believe in Santa, but he liked being able to spend time with his family and, for one moment at least, be normal. When they were around their makeshift Christmas tree, Sam could pretend that he was just a normal kid without a destiny of being a hunter in front of him.

Now, Sam hadn't told Dean this—and really, he dreads ever telling Dean this—but he doesn't want to be a hunter. He's never felt comfortable in the work nor does he get any satisfaction from it. To Sam, hunting just brings all one step closer to death. And if Sam ever lost Dean or John—he doesn't think he'll ever survive it. His family is all he has, and Sam will do whatever it takes to defend it. He just wishes that his brother and father felt the same.

"What have you been up to?" Dean takes a long swig of the coffee and the youngest Winchester shyly holds up his latest book, _A Christmas Carol_. Dean laughs heartily, clapping Sam on the back, "In the holiday spirit, are you?"

Sam can't help but grin.

* * *

"It can't wait until after Christmas!" John roars and Sam flinches at his father's harsh tone. John returned home after dark, a desperate glint in his eyes that made Sam uneasy. He knows that his father has a temper—he's been on the receiving end of it a few times—but there's something about the sheer desperation in John's tone that sets Sam on edge.

Dean glances at Sam, "What do you think?"

What is there to think? It's clear John has his heart set out on going into a blizzard to hunt some sort of mystery creature that none of them can figure out all based on a vague lead found in an unreliable book.

Sam glowers, "We shouldn't go."

John narrows his gaze, "You don't get to make decisions."

"There's a blizzard outside though—" Dean points out and John shakes his head.

"We let this thing go and more people will vanish!" John insists, "Is that what you two want?"

Sometimes, Sam wishes he could be selfish. He wishes he could say forget the world and just focus on himself. He's only thirteen—why should he have the weight of the world on his shoulders? How is that fair? And no, he doesn't want other people to die, but he's tired of risking himself and his family. He just wants to be—

"I want to be normal." It comes out before Sam can even stop it.

John ignores him and orders Dean, "Get ready. We're going."

Dean faces Sam, a worn grin on his lips, "We'll be back by morning, Sammy."

But it's an empty promise. For all Sam knows, they could die in the storm and Sam wouldn't even know. And where would he go if he became orphaned? With Bobby? Foster care?

Sam just folds his arms across his chest and mutters petulantly, "Do what you want."

He tries to not let Dean's crestfallen expression get to him.

* * *

And, Sam supposes, that's how he ended up alone in the house on Christmas Eve, rebelliously drinking way too much hot chocolate when the ornate grandfather clock struck midnight.

"Merry Christmas." He mutters, toasting himself.

"Tis not merry," A soft voice whispers, "You are in pain, young sir."

Sam jumps back, scrambling around for a weapon but the foe he sees catches him by surprise. A young woman with chestnut hair and peach lips, beaming at him, dressed in a white sparkling gown.

"Who—" He catches himself, "What are you?"

Her emerald eyes twinkle, "Come now, Sam Winchester, does your intelligence betray you?" She meaningfully looks at the book strewn on the table and Sam gawks.

"A spirit of Christmas?" That's impossible. Yet, as Sam knows, nothing is ever truly impossible.

"There was much that Mr. Dickens got wrong about us," She sighs, "Tis no matter!" She extends out a hand, "There is someplace where you are needed."

"Needed?" Sam echoes, "No, I'm staying here. I won't disappear like the others!"

She sighs softly, "They will be returned safely, on the morn of the day after Christmas."

"I don't believe you." Sam retorts.

She chuckles but adds, "Dean needs you."

It's probably a trap, a trick playing on his biggest weakness, but the fact that she hasn't tried to kill him yet, coupled with his love for Dean has him mulling over the possibilities.

"Come now," She chides quietly, "You haven't much time."

And against all his better judgement, Sam takes her hand.

* * *

He lands with a hard thud on top of a rusted car.

"Ouch!" He yelps as he forces himself to get off the hood of the car. He dusts himself off, pleased to see that's he's just bruised and not injured and then takes in his surroundings. He knows this place. It's—!

A gun cocks behind him.

"Hands where I can see them!" A voice growls.

Sam immediately does as he's told, "Uncle Bobby, it's me."

A dark chuckle, "Try again, punk."

Sam slowly turns around and meets the stunned gaze of Bobby Singer, though it appears to Sam that the grizzled hunter is much older, dark bags under his eyes. Sam almost didn't recognize him, if not for the fact that his voice is still the same.

"Uncle Bobby?" Sam tries again.

Bobby doesn't lower the gun, "What the hell kind of trick is this?"

That's not the reaction Sam was expecting.

"No trick," Sam assures softly, "I can explain why I'm here. I think." The gun doesn't shift, "Could you, please, put the gun down?"

Bobby's expression doesn't morph into that warm and familiar face that Sam knows. Instead, he keeps the gun trained on Sam's heart and growls, "In the house. Now!"

Sam quickly does as he's told and wonders what crazy universe he's in.

* * *

The gun finally gets put away after Sam drinks holy water and proves he's not a shifter. Bobby carefully bandages the cut from the dagger on his arm, well-worn hands deftly tying the bandage.

"Uncle Bobby," Sam tries again, but the gruff hunter can barely look at him for some reason, "What's going on?"

Bobby sighs, haggard, "Your brother is on his way."

 _Dean needs you._

"Was he hunting with Dad?"

Bobby grimaces, a flash of pain entering his eyes. Bandage tied, he rises from the table and curses, "Damnit."

Sam bites his lower lip nervously, "This isn't my home, is it?"

Bobby faces Sam, eyebrows raised.

"You're older than I remember. It seems like Dad's not around and I don't recognize a lot of things in this house," Sam puts the pieces together, "What year is it?"

"2010."

Sam gawks, "Okay, yeah, that's definitely different."

Bobby sits at the table again, a rueful smile tugging on his lips, "It's good to see you, Sam."

There's something more at play here, something that Bobby isn't saying. Sam knows he shouldn't pry—he's learned from books that learning about the future can only lead to horrible things—but he can't help but want to comfort Bobby somehow, to ease him through whatever trauma has occurred.

"You too, Uncle Bobby."

And before Sam can second guess it, he gets up and throws his arms around Bobby, hugging the older hunter tightly.

* * *

There are clues in Bobby's house—parts of the puzzle to put together to try and piece together what happened. A picture of all of them—he recognizes Dean and Bobby, but barely recognizes himself; does he really become that tall?—and a few scraps of paper on Bobby's desk with his handwriting on it. It's strange. The Sam here, of this time, feels almost like a ghost, haunting Bobby and confusing Sam himself.

"Sammy!"

Sam grins—he knows that voice too well—and quickly rushes toward the porch.

"Dean!"

If Sam's being honest, his brother looks terrible. He hasn't shaved in what looks to be weeks and he looks like he's lost some weight too. Dark bags are under his eyes and his hair is tousled. This Dean is a mess—the opposite from the Dean he knew.

Just what had happened in 2010?

"It's really you." Dean whispers, almost like raising his voice will break this illusion.

Bobby chuckles, "It's him."

Dean wraps his arms around Sam, hesitant at first, then forceful and strong. His older brother is clutching at him, like Sam is his only lifeline in the storm.

"Fuck, Sammy, I thought—" Dean's voice cuts off as a sob wracks his older brother's frame.

 _Dean needs you._

Sam just holds him tighter.

"I got you," Sam whispers, "I'm here."

* * *

Later, the three of them sit at Bobby's table and Sam tells them about the Christmas spirit.

"Never heard of anything like that," Bobby mutters, "But it would explain why so many people seem to go missing every year."

"They time travel and get stuck?" Dean posits.

Bobby shrugs, "Maybe."

"So, where am I?" Sam finally works up the nerve to ask.

Bobby's horrified face is his first clue. The grief that consumes his brother is the other. Dean coughs, trying to clear his throat.

"You're, uh, busy." Dean lies.

"Busy?" Sam presses.

"On a hunt." Bobby supplies softly.

"I hunt by myself?" The one thing their father drilled into them was to never hunt alone. Hunting alone was a reckless thing to do and just asking for trouble.

Dean's absolutely mournful when he states, "You were the only one who could do it."

Sam doesn't know what this hunt is, but he's not an idiot. He's starting to think that there is no hunt and he's dead. That would explain why Bobby and Dean were so shocked to see him. He's dead in this time. Is that why the spirit sent him here, to try and comfort Dean in his moment of grief?

"We should figure out a way to get Sam back." Bobby breaks the silence.

Dean nods, "Yeah."

But Sam feels like his real work is just getting started.

* * *

The salvage yard is still the same, thankfully. He's able to navigate it by heart, which gives him some small comfort. He has countless memories of running around outside with Dean, laughing and calling to each other. To think that he dies so young—

He can't think about it though. If there's one thing his family has taught him, it's that nothing is ever set in stone. Whatever is going on in 2010 can change. Sam has to focus on helping Dean and getting back to his own time.

"Which is more important?"

He turns around to find the Christmas spirit there, an easygoing smile on her lips.

"Why did you send me here?" Sam questions, "I'm dead here!"

"You think," She points out, "The truth is often more complicated."

"Enough of riddles!" Sam growls, glaring, "Send me back."

"Oh," The spirit frowns, "I cannot do that. You must find your own way."

His eyes widen, "You said you return everyone—"

The mischievous glint in her eyes flashes, "Only those of noble heart, those who give with the love of Christmas in their hearts, 'tis only them that return."

He's about to scream, when he pitches forward, knees falling into the dirt as he clutches his chest. His heart hammers, pounding painfully and his breath leaves him in fits.

The spirit bends down, frowning, "You haven't much time, Sam Winchester."

"Sammy!"

She waves and then vanishes as Dean rounds the bend. Seeing his younger brother on the ground, he breaks out into a sprint, skidding to a stop in front of Sam.

"What is it?" Dean panics, hands searching Sam for some sort of injury, "Sammy, breathe!"

But Sam can't breathe, and the world starts getting fuzzy.

"Bobby!"

And that's the last thing Sam hears before he passes out.

* * *

Predictably, Dean's face is the first thing he sees when he comes to on Bobby's couch.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean smiles tightly, trying to keep the worry out of his expression, but Sam knows him better, even despite all the time that has passed, "How you feeling?"

His chest still aches, and he rubs at it, "Hurts a bit."

Dean grimaces, "We need to get you back."

"She said I have to have a noble heart to get back."

"You saw her? But the wards—!"

Sam places a shaky hand on his older brother's shoulder, trying to find that piece of Dean still deep inside this fractured man.

"You shouldn't blame yourself." He tells him quietly, because of course, if something bad happened to Sam, that's what Dean would do. It's what he's always done, ever Sam was old enough to walk into walls.

Dean glowers, "You don't get what you're saying."

"I'm dead, right?" He tries not to jump when Dean flinches, "Dean, whatever happened, it wasn't your fault."

"Shut up, Sam."

"I mean it—"

"You're burning in Hell!" Dean screams, jerking away from the teen, "Forever burning, Sam, okay? And don't try to tell me it's not my fucking fault. It is! I should've found a way to save you!"

Hell.

That's terrifying. Sam likes to consider himself a good person, but apparently that didn't work out. If he's in Hell, then that's his fate. Or is it? Fate could be changed. There has to be some hope.

But Sam can't focus on that now. Whatever is going on with him is Future Sam's problem. Right now, Dean needs him.

"Did you try?" Sam asks quietly.

"Of course, I did! I spent months trying!"

Sam smiles, "Sounds good enough to me then."

Dean glares, "Sammy—"

Sam holds his hand up, "No, listen, look I have no idea what's going on here. I don't know how I ended up in," He sucks a breath in, steadying himself, "Hell, but I know you, Dean. I know you would've done anything for me. So, yeah, I think I'm allowed to say that I forgive you."

Dean doesn't say anything for the longest time. He's almost like a statue, frozen in place. Finally, a tear snakes down Dean's cheek.

"Hey," Sam gets his attention, "I love you."

Dean wetly laughs, "Love you too, Sammy."

"Well, 'tis a happy ending for all."

The spirit materializes in the living room, beaming.

"What the hell—"

"It's the spirit, Dean!"

"Season's greetings," She nods at Dean, before extending a hand out to Sam, "Time to go back."

Sam hesitates, glancing back at Dean.

"If you stay, your body will not survive," The spirit informs him, "Tis your choice."

"Go, Sammy," Dean murmurs, "I'll be fine."

"Bye, Dean."

"Goodbye, Sammy."

And he takes the spirit's hand once more.

* * *

"Sammy, you with me?"

Sam groans as he opens his eyes, wincing at the pain in his temple. Dean hovers over him, fussing with Sam's head.

"Dean?"

"What happened, Sam?" John interjects, concern lacing his tone, "We found you passed out on the floor."

Sam reaches for a memory, a fuzzy recollection, but he can't quite recall it.

"He didn't eat enough," Dean deduces, "I told you, Sam, your rabbit food isn't enough."

"What about the hunt?" Sam interrupts, "Did you catch it?"

John shakes his head, "It's Christmas Eve. You were right, Sam. It can wait."

Sam's eyes widen, "Really?"

Dean chuckles, "C'mon, let's get some food in you and we can find something cheesy to watch on TV."

It's one of the best Christmases that Sam will ever have.

* * *

"Thank you." Castiel bows before the regal Christmas spirit before him. She's been around almost as long as he, even before Christmas even existed, there were always spirits of goodwill and hope.

"Tis good to spread cheer to those in dire need of it," She states softly, "And from what you have spoken of those two boys, they need more help than most."

"I'm working on fixing things," Castiel explains, "I just needed Dean to have hope until then."

"Twill be a dream for he and Bobby Singer, but one that will keep them both hopeful."

"Yes, we all need hope." Castiel states.

"Merry Christmas, Castiel." The spirit vanishes in a flourish of snowflakes.

And Castiel swears, that this time next Christmas, they will all be back together again.

No matter the cost.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Oh wow, this one spiraled out of my control, but I enjoyed writing it. I hope you all liked it too. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	4. Sleep

_**Author's Note:**_ _I hope those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving had a wonderful one! I've been travelling a lot and I also celebrated my birthday, but I'm back and am ready to continue working on these great prompts! To that end,_ _ **REQUESTS ARE CLOSED**_ _. If I re-open them, I will let you know._

 _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Katlover98**_ _who requested, "I was wondering if you could do one where Sam tries to pretty up the Bunker for the AU Hunters now living with them to give them a good Christmas after who knows how long. He's sleep deprived though so he breaks something. I'll leave it up to you what he breaks. Dean and Mary taking care of him afterward is a must. Maybe adding Dean making him sleep more than three hours a day." I must confess, I haven't kept up with the show recently, so I'm going to tweak this prompt a bit. I hope that's okay. How about Sam decorating for their first Christmas with Mary? Let's go with that. I hope you enjoy! Thanks for the prompt!_

* * *

" _'Cause it's almost nearly getting close to counting down to Christmas_

 _It's almost time to see the tree light up the town for Christmas_

 _It's thirty-four thousand, fifty-eight minutes away_

 _It's almost nearly getting close to counting down to Christmas Day!"_

— _A Christmas Story, "Counting Down To Christmas"_

* * *

Sam can't remember the last time he slept.

No, that's not an exaggeration. He literally can't remember the last time his head hit the pillow ever since their mom—their now very much alive mom—reappeared, suddenly filling Sam with a hope and fear that he never experienced before. Hope that he would finally get to know his mother, the woman he never knew and fear that she would find him lacking somehow. But apparently Dean had told her everything—the Apocalypse, Hell, Purgatory—and Mary, while shaken, was still here. Still, a nagging thought pulled on Sam's mind—did she really know everything about Sam or had Dean left a few details out?

Christmas had always been the two of them and never a big occasion. Once they inherited the bunker, suddenly Christmas became complete with retro decorations and an actual Christmas dinner prepared with Dean. But now, with Mary, Sam wants to make their first Christmas back together, as a family, perfect. Of course, the hunting world doesn't take a holiday and their last hunt had taken them across the country. They'd driven all night, each taking turns at the wheel, only for them to arrive back at the bunker two days before Christmas. As Dean and Mary both slept, Sam found himself with one mission: make this the best Christmas ever.

This meant decorations, of course, and he'd actually sprung for some nicer lights he'd ordered online. Twinkling snowflakes and bright red candy canes glowed as he hung them up around the bunker, carefully scrutinizing their placement. He'd stoked the fridge with eggnog and had sugar cookie dough chilling, waiting to be rolled and them baked. Really, there was only one thing to do—get a Christmas tree.

Now, Sam could've ordered an artificial one. Really, that was probably the more practical solution, but there was something magical about a real Christmas tree that a fake one simply couldn't replicate. Maybe it was that wonderful smell or maybe it just embodied what a real Christmas—like those ones he'd dreamed about as a kid—that just screamed Christmas.

So, a real Christmas tree it was.

* * *

When he arrived at the forest, Sam felt fine. Sure, he was tired, but it wasn't the kind of overwhelming, I'm-going-to-face-plant-right-here-in-the-snow kind of tired, and in truth, he was used to working on less sleep. Being a hunter all his life, he'd perfected it. There'd been nights when he got just three hours and days where he'd been up for 46 hours before he was finally able to rest. Cutting down a tree while he'd been up for only 22 hours didn't seem like a big deal.

But it was.

He'd cut the tree down just fine. That wasn't the problem. It was as the tree was coming down that Sam realized just a little bit too late that his aim had been slightly off. Instead of the tree toppling away from him, it was now coming to him. He jumped, but his reactions were slow and before he knew it, it was over.

The tree collided with him, hurling him down into the snow where his head thudded against the cold hard ground. He winced, hissing out a pained breath and tried to push the tree off, but a burning sensation stopped him. The tree was resting directly on his chest. Slowly, he began to put the pieces together and the picture it formed wasn't good.

Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, research genius, was trapped underneath a Christmas tree.

* * *

He must've blacked out because when he opened his eyes again, the sun had begun to set. A lingering cold seeped into his bones, dulling the sharp ache in his head. He couldn't feel his fingers and his jeans were wet from the damp snow. Simply put, he had to get out of here and now.

Moving the tree was not an option though. No matter how hard Sam tried, he couldn't budge it, not without jarring his ribs or causing his chest to gasp. There had to be something—someway—to get out of here. No way Sam Winchester was dying under a Christmas tree. It wasn't happening.

"Sammy!"

An echo of a familiar voice on a wind.

"D'n?" Sam's own voice sounded rough and he coughed, yelling louder, "Dean!"

"I've got him!" Mary was suddenly there, her visage swimming into his sights, a soft smile on her lips. She placed a warm hand on his cheek and he leaned into it, trying to soak up the heat.

"M-Mom."

"It's okay, Sam," Mary whispered softly, combing her hands through his hair, "We've got you. Keep those eyes on me."

He could hear Dean doing something in the background, but he couldn't focus on it. Suddenly, the weight on his chest was lifted and Mary was easing him up, Dean helping support his other side.

"Jesus, Sam, you're an icicle." Dean chided, a grimace on his lips.

"W-wanted t-o get a Christmas t-tree." He stammered. Now that was he was on his feet and moving, the cold seemingly had invaded him, causing uncontrollable shivering.

"You needed to sleep," Mary chided, though a note of worry was still in her voice, "Christmas isn't a big deal."

Sam stopped abruptly, "It is! 'Cause we're together."

Mary's eyes widened. Dean's breath caught. Slowly though, Mary nodded, her eyes sparking with unshed tears. Quietly, she spoke, "Yes, Sam, we're all together."

"C'mon," Dean ushered them toward the car, "We need to get you warmed up."

And in the warmth of the Impala, Sam passed out.

* * *

He spent Christmas Eve in and out of consciousness as he battled a high fever. Spending a few hours in the snow could knock anyone out and while he was lucky that he hadn't gotten frostbite, the fever raged on, making him believe he was back in the snow all over again.

Through the bits and pieces he could recall though, Dean had been there, talking, as he always did when he worried. Talking about cars, about sports, about times gone by—anything and everything that came to his mind. Dean's steady presence grounded him, keeping Sam safe and secure.

But he could also hear Mary, humming a tune that Sam couldn't quite place, but knew he heard before. He felt her hands carefully checking him for the fever, could hear her soft voice musing about how much things had changed.

Maybe he hadn't gotten his perfect Christmas, but at least he had his family.

* * *

When the fever finally broke, Christmas had come and gone.

"You can't let yourself get like that again." Dean chided as he helped roll up the Christmas lights for next year.

"It was an accident—"

"I know, Sam, but you know better," Dean insisted, "You've been running on less and less sleep now and it's not healthy."

Sam rolled his eyes, "This coming from the guy who practically eats the food equivalent of a heart attack at every meal?"

Dean placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, his expression grim, "I mean it, Sam. Just because Mom is back, that doesn't mean you have to make up for lost time."

"I don't know her, Dean."

"I know, but you will. There's time for that. And next year, maybe we can do the whole Christmas thing. Right this time."

Sam nodded, processing his brother's words. He'd gone overboard, he knew that. Still, when it came to Mary, Sam didn't know how to act. He had no memories of her. He'd always grown up wondering what she was like, but always accepting that he would never know.

But now, he had a chance.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

Sam bit his lower lip, nervous, "Do you think she . . .?" It was so stupid, but it was a question he needed answered, "Do you think she loves me? Despite everything?"

A hug was his response—Mary suddenly appearing from the kitchen and wrapping her arms around him. Then, she lifted one hand and held it out for Dean. A group hug, probably their first and only one.

Still, Sam smiled, maybe this Christmas hadn't worked out, but he got his mom back.

And that was worth far more than any Christmas present he could've received.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I hope you all enjoyed! I had a blast writing it. Please review if you have a moment._


	5. Without You

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm so happy that you all are enjoying these stories just as much as I enjoy writing them. Our next prompt comes from_ _ **TotallyChic**_ _, who requested, "Sam gets hurt on a solo hunt and gets hurt, and Dean is far away, so Sam has to wait out the pain. And later, Dean feels guilty." Thanks for the prompt! Let's set this post season three._ _ **Trigger warning: suicidal ideation. If that bothers you, please do not read.**_ _Enjoy!_

* * *

" _Now it's Christmas  
And you're so far away  
On this Christmas  
I just wished you had stayed." _

— _Katherine McPhee, "It's Not Christmas Without You"_

* * *

Sam never used to hunt solo. It was one of the few hunting rules their father had enforced ever since they were young—never hunt alone. Being alone meant there was no one there to watch your back, to help you in case something went horribly wrong and you found yourself being cornered by the very same creature you were out to kill. Being alone meant dealing with serious injuries when blood loss and shock clouded your judgement, making you sloppy in addition to almost killing you outright. No, Sam never used to hunt alone, but a lot of things had changed recently.

So much has changed since Dean went to Hell.

Sam wanted to die the minute he watched the light go out of his brother's eyes. He thought about it a lot, how easy it would be to put a bullet to his head and get out of this corrupt world full of monsters that he had no hope of ever defeating. But that would mean Dean would be in Hell for nothing. Because, like it or not, Dean was in Hell because of Sam and Sam couldn't let Dean's sacrifice be in vain. As much as Sam viewed his life as some fucked up tragedy, Dean valued it and it was only for Dean's sake that he was breathing now.

Christmas, much like the numerous grief articles he'd read online stated, only made things worse. Dean loved Christmas—loved the cheesy presents, adored the sparkling lights—and now, leaning against a tree trunk as the snow falls on Christmas Eve, Sam can't believe that Dean isn't here.

"Fuck." He winces as he applies stronger pressure to the sluggishly bleeding cut on his side. He doesn't remember how long he's been out here since the witch turned on him, sending him flying as an invisible force cut into his skin. He must've hit his head, judging from the perpetual ache in his skull. Still, even as his body shivers in the slowly gathering snow, Sam can't bring himself to care. So, what if he dies? It's not like Sam has anything to live for.

Dying might be—

 _Don't think like that, Sammy._

And now he knows he's going crazy because he swears he can hear his older brother's voice in his head, clear as day.

 _You need to keep going._

"Can't." He's lost too much blood already and the world is spinning around him. There's no one around for miles and his cellphone is who knows where. No one is coming for him. No one would care if he died.

 _I would!_

Sam forces himself to exhale shakily, trying to focus on Dean's voice. It must be a product of his delirium, some sort of symptom of shock, but it's been too long since he heard his big brother's voice and Sam misses it.

 _You can do this, Sammy. You just need to get up._

The snow gently falls from the sky, the sunset brilliantly filling the sky with hues of orange and pink.

 _Please, Sammy. Get up, get help._

His body protests as he forces his strained muscles to move. Blood gushes from the wound, the pain flaring, but soon, Sam finds himself on his feet.

 _Good, Sam! Now, get back to the car._

"D'n? Miss you."

He puts one foot in front of the other and keeps moving. He's not sure how he has the strength or the energy to even be moving. He might have finally lost his mind.

 _Miss you too._

And somehow, Sam finds himself surviving.

* * *

— _One year later_

It's been a hard adjustment since returning from Hell. Sam seemed to have aged 30 years and became so self-reliant that Dean even wondered if Sam even missed him. With his little brother taking point more and more, Dean found himself floundering.

But mistakes still happen.

Which is how they ended up in the hospital—Sam took the brunt of the angry werewolf attack, protecting Dean. That was insanely messed up in the eldest Winchester's brain. Still, things had changed, more than Dean could've imagined.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is slurred, probably because of all the pain meds circulating in the youngest Winchester's veins.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean manages a tired grin, relieved at least to see Sam's eyes meeting his.

It had been touch and go—injuries with blood loss always are—but now, Dean can finally feel himself breathe. Sam is okay. As to their fractured relationship, at least they have time to figure it out.

"Heard you," Sam whispers softly, "Kept me going."

Dean furrows his brow, perplexed. Sure, he'd been shouting at Sam when his little brother went down, but Sam had been pretty coherent at the time.

"When?"

"In the snow."

Dean blinks, lost. They were in Florida this year for Christmas.

"Sam, it's not snowing."

Sam just smiles.

"Sam," Dean tries again, "When was it snowing?"

"Last year," Sam whispers, "I wanted to die. But I heard you."

Last year, Dean had been burning in Hell while Sam had been left alone to fend for himself. He'd seen new scars on Sam's body—when you lived with someone in such close quarters as they did, it was bound to happen—but Sam had always refused to talk about it. Deep down, Dean knew they were from hunts gone wrong, hunts where Sam didn't have Dean to watch his back.

The guilt nearly consumes him. How many times had Sam almost died without him? And what was this about Sam wanting to die? Dean knew it was his fault. Still, what else could he have done?

"Hey," Sam holds his hand, a rare admission of caring from his now hardened brother, "S'not your fault."

"Sam—"

Sam grips his hand tighter, "No. I heard you. Your voice saved me."

Dean nods, though the guilt is still there. It's hard not to feel responsible. Still, Sam is alive and he's alive. It's Christmas Eve and they're both here together. Once Sam is discharged, Dean will finally talk to him, try to clear the air and get things back to the way they were.

But for now, with his baby brother by his side, things are good.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."

Sam grins.

And all is right in the world.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


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